We all know of that one person who will complain all the way about how much he hates his job, his racist boss, the commute, his deadbeat co-workers and yet will stay there for fifteen plus years. It never occurs to him, perhaps, that there is always a choice. For as long as we are alive and not in prison somewhere, then we have a choice.
I could have been the last person or the only person on this earth.
It is a humbling feeling this: to look around and see no living creature; to see no sign of ‘civilisation’ .
Bullying is all too common, pervasive and dangerous and many young people, broken from being bullied, have either killed themselves or turned the gun on others.
You don’t have to do anything by a certain time. Let the old aunties pushing you to get married because all your agemates are already married with kids let them know that your time is governed by Allah’s Will.
It is never too late to change your story, to shrug off the labels you have given yourself: you are only what you say to yourself you are.
Letting go means you are no longer in charge and not being in charge can leave you scared, vulnerable and uncertain. And who wants that?
What would it be like, I wonder? to do over, start afresh, begin anew? Pack up, leave and land where
I get to choose. We all get to choose. Even in times of dire circumstances we get to choose.
Having a cat in a house full of pigeons wasn’t going to be a very smart idea and I doubt Junior would have looked kindly on his little ones being on the lunch menu.
I saw a man in the street Bird nest hair, half clothed Dirty, bare of feet. Knelt upon a puddle
Growing up in the late 80s it wasn’t unusual to have four out of seven nights when we had to make do with candles and kerosene ‘kandili’.
I find as women we are the most judgemental to our own.
We smile haughtily, shake our heads and tut tut at our sisters for not being ‘up to standard’.